Untold Baskerville
by StArBarD
Summary: Moriarty has taken over the Baskerville research facility and has taken Mycroft hostage! It's up to Sherlock and John to liberate him and the ten scientists, but in the meantime Moriarty is going to show them exactly what they missed in Baskerville the first time around. The glowing rabbits are multiplying!
1. Hostages

Mycroft Holmes was so reliable you could generally set your watch to him.

He never a deviated from the track which led from his house, to his office, to the Diogenes club and back again; ever.

For him to leave this path, which he had tirelessly forged ever day with the high hopes that in time it would be a path of comfort and familiarity, would be akin to a planet suddenly deorbiting.

But, as most modern astronomers will happily inform you, these things do happen.

Which is precisely what his lovely assistant petulantly reminded him from behind the wheel of the pitch black jeep they had rented, which bucked and heaved over the gravel path which cut through the moor overlooking the Baskerville research and testing facility.

"It can't be helped," She said, already annoyed at being scolded for attempting to text and drive. "These things do happen."

"Yes," Mycroft snapped "Very, very infrequently. I feel a bit entitled to some sulking every now and again."

His assistant silently accepted that her boss was going to be griping until it was time to work, at which time he will alter his mood dramatically to fit the situation, finish the job and then settle back into a gentle sulk until he was home. It never failed.

Even when thrown into an unpredictable situation, Mycroft Holmes was still, predictable.

"I forgot, what was your name this evening?" he asked staring out into the blackened wilderness.

"Um…" His assistant mulled over her ever-expanding list of names in her head, finally settling on the one she felt suited her mood. "Jessica."

"Well Jessica, I hope you don't have any objections to working overtime this evening, your assistance will be invaluable to me. And I've been told that a… Major Barrymore is going to be difficult to negotiate with." Mycroft turned the pages of his designer notepad disinterestedly hunting down names and positions that could be useful in the future.

"No problem sir, it came with the Job description." She nodded.

Mycroft squinted out of the dark window, his eagle eyes picking up a flickering light flashing over the plunging hills.

"What do you suppose that is?" he asked himself, quite forgetting about 'Jessica'.

"Ignore it sir, intelligence has already solved that mystery."

"Fine." He said as he lapsed into silence.

Jessica squinted at the black road that was thrown into dim illumination by the dingy yellow light cast by the old Jeep's headlamps. It was impossible to see the dirt road until it was directly in front of the car, at which point it would be impossible to avoid hitting anything. She was faintly afraid of hitting an escaped Baskerville mutant of some kind, like the giant hound John Watson had blogged about just a few weeks earlier.

After a few tedious hours on the open road, and countless close calls between the Vehicle and native wildlife, the black iron gates careened into view and the ghostly white edifice that was the Baskerville research facility rose from the moor with alarming clarity.

In the darkness, Jessica could see the creeping spindly figures of black pipes winding all the way around the unassuming building and shadowy figures marched past the lights, dancing into her vision one second and then blending into the night in a flash. At night the guards at Baskerville dropped the common camouflage and adopted black sweaters to fight the chill of the biting Dartmoor wind. As a result they became shaded figures; rarely seen, but easy to fear.

Mycroft rolled down his window and lazily handed his ID over to a waiting gatekeeper. The gatekeeper took it to his small computer and scanned the barcode under a dim red light. When the computer blinked its "Authorized" sign the man hurriedly thrust the card back to its owner, and saluted him as he drove off for good measure.

"Something on your mind…_Jessica?"_ Mycroft asked his assistant languidly while letting his head roll over his hand where it had been perched against the window.

"I don't like it here." She stated as unaffectedly as she could.

Mycroft chuckled dryly. "I thought you were more professional than that Anthea."

"It's Jessica today sir."

"I prefer Anthea. It's easier to remember."

"Fine." She said. It was not in her nature to argue with her boss, especially over something as trivial and changeable as her name.

"There's nothing to fear." Mycroft said leaning back in his car seat. He was uncomfortable no matter how he sat. He longed for the worn, soft cushions at the Diogenes club.

"My training is warning me otherwise." She stated in the same uncaring tone while craning her neck around on all sides. As the car drove forward, deeper into Baskerville she began to become a bit paranoid about someone or something jumping out in front of the car.

"Be brave." Mycroft rolled his eyes and scoffed.

Anthea smiled and swallowed a quick laugh. "Bravery is by far the kindest word for stupidity." She quoted. Mycroft turned to her, his face a mask of indifference, but a slight flaring of the nostrils showed her that she had hit a vital region.

"And stupidity gets people killed." She finished, letting her meaning sink in with the silence that ensued.

Mycroft mused on the abnormally good instincts of his assistant for a few seconds as the final obstacle loomed in front of the Jeep, one last chain-link fence. Anthea had always been especially keen and sharp-witted, but lately her talent for foresight had bordered on supernatural. She had quipped twice of the 'natural instinct of women' but had never been wrong about her hunches before. If he didn't know any better he would have said she had picked up his deductive skill, but her instincts did not come from any observation.

"Nonsense." He said as the fence was laboriously pulled out of their way. "Who would attack a high security base like Baskerville? Who could? A foreign government perhaps, but otherwise we need not worry about assault. My influence should give us a considerable weight here, regardless." He finished by glowering at a young, apple-faced soldier who hit the side of the Jeep with his open palm as a cue for them to continue advancing.

Anthea, for she decided that might as well be her name for the rest of the night, parked the Jeep basically in the first location that she thought would keep the car safe and out of the way. No sooner had she turned off the headlamps, than the cylinder of light from a torch descended onto the car hood and scanned the passengers with a blinding burst of white light.

"Mr. Holmes? Mr. Mycroft Holmes?"

"For goodness sake, put that light down!" Mycroft barked shielding his eyes.

The light plunged out of the vehicle. "Oh, my bad sir."

Mycroft stepped out of the car, blinking away the smears of green and blue color that obscured his vision, and went to meet the yellow light at the front of the car.

"It's nice to meet you at last Mr. Holmes, you're brother really gave us a scare the other…" Mycroft silenced the man with a brief chop of his hand and continued rubbing the blindness out of his eyes.

Yes, I'm aware of my brother's actions; won't you please show us inside?" Mycroft asked in a kind tone, but if the man could have seen his face he would have known that Mycroft wasn't asking. It was a delicately veiled command.

"Of course, right away Sir." He pointed out a path to a door with his torch. "This way ma'am." He added to Anthea who had materialized silently next to her boss.

They followed the man at a brisk clip quietly, listening to the sounds of the top-secret government research facility at night.

"_Anticlimactically_," Anthea thought "_It sounds just like a top-secret Government research facility during the day."_

The man opened the door with a hideous screeching that set the teeth in Mycroft's jaw on edge.

"_Oil."_ Mycroft thought silently, massaging the shooting pain out of his molars with his tongue. "_Now_."

Anthea followed the dark gray silhouette through the door and blinked in surprise. It took several moments for her eyes to adjust to the bright white walls and the brilliant fluorescent light pouring from the pristine ceiling. She had the overall impression that she had walked into the torch.

"Major Barrymore should be in lab number four at this time of night doing his rounds, if you'll please, I'll lead you to his office and go and…"

"No, no." Mycroft said in his most officious tone. "We should go ahead and meet him there."

He smiled shyly, but with the unmistakable twinkle in his eye that showcased what a talent for politics he had. Anthea watched, amused and the man fluctuated between the orders he must have been given from Major Barrymore; probably to heard the Government official into an office until he was ready to be dealt with, or the kindly suggestion with the implied threat that had been dealt to him by the Boss-of-his-boss's-boss. He was at a loss for words, and gaped blankly down the hallway.

"Buh-buh-buh-but…"

Mycroft Holmes smiled warmly, an extension of his shy smile that he only ever exhibited when he had completely dominated another person with his power and personage. He nodded to the man and arched his eyebrows expectantly.

"Show me." he said with a chilling finality. The man stopped gaping and nodded in defeat, leading the duo to the lift at the end of the hallway.

Anthea glanced at her boss as they boarded the lift together and made sure he wasn't watching her. She pulled her phone out of her jacket pocket and clicked a few keys.

"Excuse me, Miss?" the young man asked carefully, regaining some of his confidence. "You can't have phones in the labs. It interferes with the equipment."

Anthea blushed lightly and sheepishly pocketed her phone ignoring the icy glare Mycroft shot at her from where he stood patiently waiting for the young man to operate the lift (which had no indicators to which floors were which).

"Phones don't work down there anyway. The signal gets lost somewhere around the second floor. Nothing comes in or out." He explained.

Anthea mumbled a reply that sounded somewhat like an apology and the young man mashed a button.

The lift shuttered to life with an agonized groan and slowly started descending the halls of Baskerville with only the slightest lurching.

Mycroft counted floors for a time, but stopped himself forcibly when he reached the double digits. Anthea only thought it was a long way down.

"How for down does this lift go?" Mycroft asked.

"Quite a ways." The man said somewhat proudly. Mycroft did not even bother to inform the man that he was avoiding the answer.

Finally the lift halted, and the metal doors were pulled aside.

Mycroft stepped out and was met with the red, bearded face of one very, very angry Major Barrymore.

"Ah, Major Barrymore I presume." He said with his usual calmness, ignoring the smell of the Major's last meal that wafted out of his mouth in labored pants that the Major could just barely keep from becoming a shout of frustration.

"And you must be Mycroft Holmes. I can see the resemblance." Major Barrymore managed to say in a gruff tone, barely above a growl.

The Major glanced over Mycroft's shoulder at the young man and relished in the thrill of fear that pealed through his expression momentarily before sealing itself off in an expression of groomed indifference.

"Might we talk somewhere a bit more…conducive?" Mycroft asked sensing the young man's progress as a hindrance.

"Like, perhaps my office?" Major Barrymore said smiling wolfishly, knitting his brow together in a concentrated effort not to explode in a fit of rage. It had not been a good day.

"I was thinking in the office of a Mrs…" Mycroft dug his notebook out of his jacket pocket and flipped through the pages "Stapleton?"

Major Barrymore stood completely still for a full moment as he processed this information slowly and carefully.

"What do you want with Dr. Stapleton?" He asked at length.

"Oh, just a chat. Nothing too serious." Mycroft arched his eyebrows significantly "Nothing you feel uncomfortable with."

Major Barrymore had had it. Government bureaucrats in his business were bad enough, but one smug, pompous, holier-than-thou politician was not going to barge into his facility and 'chat' with his doctors.

"You know what I'm uncomfortable with?" He charged.

"High blood pressure?" Anthea chimed. She couldn't help it, it was too easy.

"You self-righteous government bullies in the monkey suits coming in here and telling me how to run my damn life." He shouted.

"Easy Major." From down the hall a matronly blond woman exited the lab and stepped into the hall, dusting her hands off with two great sweeps of her slender hands.

"Stapleton, they're…"

"They're expected." She cut into the Major's speech with a single curt change of tone.

Mycroft smiled genuinely. Finally, someone who was willing to be somewhat reasonable. After all, this wasn't exactly a surprise visit.

"You're the man who sent my daughter the new rabbit." She accused.

"I told you we'd be in touch." Mycroft nodded.

"You want to talk in my office?"

"Please."

Dr. Stapleton opened the lab door and the odd procession of four filed into the lab in a curious line. Stapleton cut through the wide, blanched lab with the confidence of someone who had walked through the narrow tables covered in chemicals and around the squealing primates being injected with the cold and the cure every day for years. Mycroft followed her with the confidence that he emits naturally when he has just started to get his way, and plans to accomplish much, much more before he's done. Major Barrymore trotted after him, frustrated and protective of the scientists that were under his guard, and Anthea clipped close on his heels, still feeling a bit nervous.

Dr. Stapleton's office was comparatively small when seen from the rest of the lab, but it had more than enough room for her books, computer, computer chair, and a small rubber flower that sat in a pink vase. The four people piled into one end of the room and each refused to spread out to the other half of the office. A faint hissing was the only indicator of the dangerous gas that was still leaking slightly from the ancient pipes that stretched up the wall. Dr. Stapleton had attacked the problem herself with a role of duct tape, but her formal complaint at being forced to share an office with a dangerous neurotoxin was still being processed by the higher-ups.

"Make this fast gentleman, I need to be in lab number twenty-three in six minutes to see if I've killed another research subject." Stapleton said eyeing each person in turn.

Mycroft smiled charmingly, thinking "_Why, how very professional of this woman."_

"I'll be brief," He said "Frankly the need has been aroused, and the funding has been found to further research on a few experimental chemicals. My superiors have asked me to come as a mediator for them and to seek out a handful of hopefuls who will head the new wave of experiments."

Anthea felt a chill ripple down her spine and she glanced out the small window at the top of the door. Every iron door at Baskerville automatically closes itself and locks itself hermetically. The only air that passed into the room came from either the noxious fumes wafting at one end of the room, or the rectangle of air conditioning that hummed just above Dr. Stapleton's desk. It was claustrophobic to think about.

"So you came to… what? Get our opinion?" Stapleton asked crossing her arms.

"No, I came to inform you that you have been chosen to head the research." Mycroft said.

Stapleton leapt out of her chair with a violent start. "What?"

"You've been chosen to be transferred to start a new research program. You're critical experiments will advance Britain in the arms race and probably save hundreds of lives, your name will be published in medical and scientific journals as the beginning of a new age of innovators." Mycroft smiled a bit wider. "If you can make progress, that is."

Stapleton bit her lip nervously "What about my research here?"

Mycroft frowned, as though he was truly disappointed, but in truth he had expected this.

"Well, it _is_ a very prestigious position. But I wouldn't want to distract you from your work with… _glowing rabbits_."

Stapleton glowered at him. "I have my hand in a lot of pies, Mr. Holmes."

"I understand, but let me explain: you will not be asked to leave Baskerville. The research is going to take place here, of course." Mycroft nodded to Major Barrymore, who had begun turning an alarming shade of purple with rage.

"Your hours are going to need re-arranging, but with a bit of persuasion I don't see why you cannot continue your research."

Stapleton lost her visage of professionalism and clapped her hands together excitedly.

"It sounds perfect!" She cried smiling.

"Too perfect." Major Barrymore whispered harshly.

"I trust that this little matter is settled?" Mycroft asked, eager to finish the list of things he had to run through before daybreak when he wanted to be in the hotel asleep.

"Wait just one minute Mr. Holmes!" Major Barrymore shot up an accusing finger and pointed it straight at Mycroft. "Just what are these experimental chemicals you expect us to work with here; what are we dealing with?"

This was another question he'd been expecting, but had been all too happy not to answer. None the less he paused for a beat to gather his thoughts.

"Well, one of the most notable chemicals is going to be the notorious agent H.O.U.N.D." Eyebrows arched around the room, but Mycroft pressed on. "However there is also going to be research into an experimental substitute for heroin that can be consumed in detox and can alleviate some of the symptoms of withdrawal, a faster and more human poison for prisons, with a higher percentage of fatality without complications…"

"It sounds wonderful!" Stapleton said with stars twinkling in her eyes.

Yes, well, you'll be the first person to be briefed when the work begins in a few weeks' time, until them my people will be in contact with you. If you have any research that you can wrap up, I suggest you do it within the next few weeks."

Suddenly the lab went pitch black and the only light in the room came from the square of a window in the door. Then the light in the window vanished too.

"What the…" Major Barrymore used a guttural swear and crashed into Mycroft as he groped through the darkness in search of a light switch.

"What happened?" Anthea asked straining to make out shapes in the blackness.

"The lights went out!" Stapleton exclaimed. Mycroft was about to snap at her about her stupidity, when a deafening siren blared, echoing around the tiny office.

Mycroft clamped his hand over his ears, startlingly disoriented and bumping into the few pieces of furniture that Dr. Stapleton had in her office. He wasn't sure where he was, but he took a few uneven steps into the abysmal blackness and almost lost his balance.

As soon as the sirens had started their roaring, they tapered away leaving a slight ringing sound behind and the crushing silence.

No one spoke for a moment; they only looked around trying to pierce the darkness without success.

"What was that?" Anthea asked hysterically. The powerful bad feeling had swollen to the point which she could no longer ignore it and the sirens had only reinforced her fears.

"That was our emergency siren system. It's only used when someone has hacked into our main computer system. That system controls everything." Major Barrymore waved his hand, though no one could see it. "Even the lights."

Dimly, the orange emergency lights flickered to life and the fingers of weak light stretched across the walls. Mycroft thought he felt his heart beating a few paces quicker than usual and wondered if it was the situation, or just the fumes he had been inhaling.

Major Barrymore had found his way to the door and with his access card, opened it and beckoned everyone to evacuate the office.

Outside, seven scientists were huddled at one corner of the lab, pressed against the door which led to the lift.

When they saw Major Barrymore, their dependable protector, they besieged him with horrified wails, confident that he would either fix the situation somehow, or get angry and throw a temper tantrum that would justify their own reactions.

"The doors are locked, our cards won't work!" One mousy scientist cried.

"What?" Major Barrymore puffed up his chest and pulled out his access card, confident that _his_ card would work.

Mycroft scanned the lab and noted everything from the convoluted chemistry equipment (Which reminded him a bit of Sherlock's) to the way the dim light cast strange shadows across the tile floor. The monkey that had been injected earlier sat patiently in his cage, watching the group of humans chatter. Mycroft thought he spotted a hint of condescension in the way he nodded at them.

Major Barrymore's card was denied with a chilling computer tone, and he had descended to beating against the door with both of his tight, meaty fists.

"Why…Won't…It…Work!" He punctuated his words with a punch.

"Don't bother; the doors are hermetically sealed, aren't they?" Anthea said bitterly.

"We'll just have to wait for help." Dr. Stapleton said.

Mycroft opened his mouth to offer a suggestion, but at that moment the intercom clicked, and even without hearing the click, everyone felt a heavy presence in the room.

They each froze, words dying in their mouths and thoughts perishing in a wave of terror in their minds.

Mycroft and Anthea exchanged significant glances, one of horror, one of resignation. The smooth, lilting voice that floated down from the intercom was all too recognizably sinister.

"Yoo-hoo." A sing-song squeal assaulted their ears at a shrill volume that made them all wince.

"Oops, sorry. This volume control is a bit temperamental. Can you hear me now?" Anthea turned to her boss, eyes wide and glazed, mouth gaping in fear.

"James Moriarty here, Baskerville. Good evening!"

Mycroft's mouth was a solid white line and tension was etched through his forehead.

"I just wanted to wish Mycroft Holmes a very merry welcome. And what an occasion it is!" The Irish accent broke suddenly into a fit of giggles that sounded extremely unnatural.

"Oh, I just can't keep a straight face. I'll just come out and say it. Good evening _hostages_!"

The seven scientists started crying out in fear and confusion and more than one asked blankly "Who's James?"

"That's right; _hostages_! At any minute I can flood the room with deadly chemicals and kill you all! Isn't this fun? And the best part is: I can have my choice of hundreds of chemicals. This one's odorless, this one burns; it's Christmas!"

Stapleton raised her hands to her hair and dug her nails into her scalp. The weight of the situation had just slammed into her. Major Barrymore continued to look indignant, though he did seem rather paler.

"But hey, I'm a nice guy. I'll let you make _one_ phone call and get your affairs in order."

"What do you want?" Major Barrymore screamed at the ceiling.

The intercom clicked off again and the room was silent.

Mycroft walked to the end of the lab, near Stapleton's office where he'd seen a phone.

"Wait a minute, shouldn't we get together and decide who we're going to phone for help?" Major Barrymore half-asked, half demanded.

"Normally I'd say yes, but under the circumstances I think not." Mycroft said. "Does anyone have and objections with my brother?"

There were whispers among the scientists and one lad who asked "Who is he?"

"Isn't Moriarty, like, your brother's arch-enemy?" Stapleton asked.

"Precisely."

"So he's expecting us to call Sherlock?"

"Yes, I imagine so."

"Then shouldn't we call someone else?" Stapleton reasoned.

"Maybe, but if he doesn't get his way, Moriarty might as well go ahead and kill us. " Mycroft said calmly as the anger and stress melted a bit from his face to be replaced with the slightest intimation of worry and doubt.

"Besides, I suppose he's the only one who can play Moriarty's game." Mycroft added.

"I have some connections." Major Barrymore tried to intercede, but Mycroft shut him up with a very, very stern look.

"And he is the only one who we can trust not to destroy, or divulge government secrets. Am I correct?"

Mycroft picked up the phone with one hand, feeling the enormous weight of the ten lives that waited patiently behind him, quelled by his superiority and the aura of security he emitted.

"But Sir…" Anthea whispered walking over to him "What if he doesn't pick up?"

"Hush." He said. There are some things better left unsaid.

Mycroft dialed, realizing more and more with each number that he was about to leave his life, and the lives of those around him in the hands of a psychopath and his brother.

And frankly, he wasn't sure which scared him more.

Sherlock Holmes was waiting for a case.

He had run out of bullets, so he couldn't shoot up the wall anymore, and his harpoon had 'magically' vanished.

He was so bored that he could almost have accepted a case from Mycroft.

Just then his phone rang. He peeked at it and realized the caller was unknown and laughed with joy. A case!

He answered and held the phone up to his ear.

"Sherlock!"

He was so disappointed when he heard Mycroft's voice he could have almost cried.

"What do you want; if it's another case of _yours_ then you can forget…"

"NO!" A chorus of voices rose from the phone and a pulse of worry shook Sherlock. Who were all those people?

"Sherlock, listen to me. Don't hang up, lives are on the line. It's Moriarty."

Sherlock swallowed a lump that had been developing in his throat. _Moriarty!_

"I'm at Baskerville. He's taken all of us hostage."

"What?" Sherlock leapt to his feet, startling John who had been calmly reading a newspaper beside him.

"Come at once if convenient." Mycroft said, sounding slightly more like his usual smug self.

"If inconvenient, come all the same!" A woman's voice shouted into the earpiece. Then a chorus of voices chimed all at once in a clashing roar of voices, pleading for the great detective's help.

Then the line went dead, leaving nothing but a droning tone.

Sherlock shed his dressing gown quickly and picked up a wallet of his that he'd left on the counter.

"Get dressed John; we're going back to Dartmoor!"

John looked up from his newspaper confused. "What? Why?"

* * *

I **wrote this all at once. I'm a bit proud.**

**This thought came from "Hey, I wonder what all they have in Baskerville." **

**Here's the only hint I'm going to give you: ****_The glowing rabbits have been multiplying_**.


	2. Seeds of Anarchy

**Sorry for the long wait, I had a little trouble... Well, that's all you need to know. For now. And thus, without further ado, here is the second chapter. The next few chapters are going to be shorter, but more frequent, FYI. It's more fun that way. :)**

* * *

Mycroft let the creamy phone slip for his hands and tumble onto the receiver with a deafening clatter. The line had been cut, just as soon as Mycroft had described the situation briefly. He hadn't even been given the time to explain to his brother exactly what he was walking into. Not that he was so certain anyway.

No one spoke, and the room tingled with the silent anticipation. While they waited for Sherlock, and while Moriarty had no use for them the only thing left to do was to wait; gripped by suspense and fear, trying not to imagine all of the possible horrors that lingered in the walls of Baskerville waiting to be unleashed upon them.

Mycroft found a chair nearby and eased himself into it, crossing his legs and allowing himself to get comfortable. With the train, the drive, and the time it would take Sherlock to get down into Baskerville, around Moriarty he felt they had plenty of time to wait, and it might as well be peaceful at the very least.

"So now what?" Major Barrymore barked.

"Now we wait." Anthea said finding another chair, several feet away from her boss and pulling out her Blackberry phone. If she could only get a signal, she might be able to call in some Calvary of her own. Being former M16 meant she had friends in high places.

"Wait?" he spat. "_Wait_? Wait for what?"

Dr. Stapleton had become as pale as a ghost, and looked as though gravity had collapsed over her shoulders. She clutched at a table and stared off into empty air. She summoned a laborious breath and whispered a feeble response.

"Wait for anything. It's all we can do."

"_Damn!_" Major Barrymore began to pace like a caged lion, shooting poisonous glances at the intercom every few seconds, and at the crowd that formed a ring around the circle he was wearing into the floor at every other moment.

"We have some stuff here." One bold scientist stepped forward, tucking her flaming red hair behind her ears with both hands. "We could make an acid or something to burn down the door."

"Pfft," one dark-skinned man scoffed as he leaned up against the monkey cages. "Leave it to an immunologist…"

The red-head made an intimidating advance, "Richard, I've had it up to here with you and my work."

The man put his hands up in mock-surrender "Okay, okay, but look, here's the thing: A chemist is the one who'll actually be doing the work. You don't know what you're talking about."

"Dick, you've been riding our asses since the start of this project." One blond (_Another immunologist_ thought Mycroft) stood up and moved beside the red-head. "Lay off."

"He's right though." An Asian man, apparently a chemist, explained. "We know what we're doing, and no offense but you don't. We went to school for this."

"We had to take four years of chemistry in college too." The red-headed immunologist shot back.

"And now you play with the common cold all day." Richard the chemist laughed. He earned himself a withering glare from red-head and Blondie while the Asian made a despairing look and the other three scientists watched with detached interest.

"We're specialists; I'd like to see you injecting something into a cell with a needle ten times thinner than a hair!"

"Oh yeah? Well at least I know when my experiment works, I can see it! You guys are all guess and check. How many times have you lost a virus in the lab?"

Anthea looked up from her phone, slightly alarmed.

The red-head hissed in a feral display of her anger "How many times did you leave sodium-what-ever- in a flask and ruin other people's work? You're nothing but a careless, brainless—"

"I think that's enough!" Dr. Stapleton shouted with an echoing intensity. The room fell into shocked silence. Major Barrymore slowed to a halt and the two feuding scientists looked at the floor sheepishly.

"Don't you see what you're doing?" Dr. Stapleton said in a low quivering tone, "You're playing right into his hands. He wants us to fight; he wants us to tear ourselves apart!"

The Asian's jaw dropped, the red-head dropped her face until her nose was vertical to the ground, hanging in shame and her tangled curls of flaming hair hung in a curtain hiding her face, Richard the chemist didn't move at all, his expression never changing, only the tightening of his lips signaled any thoughts at all.

"He's only just started and you're already at each other's throats. We need to band together, not rip ourselves apart! We need unity. We need to protect each other! This lab has always been a family for me, even if we did have our little spats."

Stapleton rocked on her feet and stumbled onto a barstool that was conveniently nearby. "I've always thought of this lab as a family, more so than my own. Now we need to come together. We need to protect each other." Her voice faded away like a noise floats away on a night breeze, the emotion in her weak tone better conveying her meaning than her awkward words ever could.

To Mycroft's trained eyes, he could see that the fear and disbelief were working themselves on Stapleton's conscious mind. If she didn't find some support soon she would soon be an emotional wreck. He sneered slightly, almost unnoticeably. He thought she was made of sterner stuff. If a little issue could cause such paralyzing stress, he couldn't imagine her working under the new system. He made a mental note to reconsider her for the job.


	3. Journey to Battle

**This is probably the most legit thing I have ever attempted to write. That is why it is so hard. When I write it I think it's great, but reading it, not so much. But when I go to fix it, I don't know what to do! HELP!**

* * *

Sherlock was as silent as stone on the train. He'd given John the brief synopsis he'd heard on the phone, but beyond that he refused to say a word.

Though, to his credit, most of what John asked him could be classified as sentiment; which he just didn't acknowledge whatsoever.

"I know you've had your histories and all that, but he's your brother, for goodness sake!" John pressed to him for what felt like the hundredth time. "Now, tell me what you're thinking or I swear…!"

But John never finished the threat. At that moment the train pulled into the station and Sherlock Holmes was standing, retrieving his carry-on bag and preparing to disembark.

From the station they once again, rented a car, not dissimilar to the one they'd rented a few weeks prior when working for their client, Henry Knight.

John drove, giving him a chance to think while he focused on the bumpy trail and hone his argument, carefully choosing the best words to elicit at least a verbal response.

"So, we're breaking into a top-secret government research facility."

Sherlock nodded lightly.

"Again."

Another nod.

"Do we have a plan this time?"

Sherlock paused for a decent length of time, tilted his head, as though he didn't understand and after a moment, shrugged.

"How the hell did Moriarty manage to subdue the whole thing anyway? Is there a bomb somewhere?"

"Maybe if you would give me time to think John I could work out some of these conundrums which seem to be plaguing you!" Sherlock snapped, spitting out his words in a stream of sudden fury.

John was silenced. Sherlock hadn't truly lost his temper in a long time. John wondered whether Sherlock growing a temper had more to do with Mycroft, or Moriarty.

As they approached the dirt roads which lead to the research center, they were suddenly assaulted by the wailing of sirens that signaled the approach of a police vehicle. John checked his rear-view and found that a large black van was speeding towards them, hurtling over the mounds in the road and lurching dangerously forward.

"Um…"

"Pull over." Sherlock said tersely.

John steered the large van off the road, and to his sickly surprise the black van followed suit. The sirens died suddenly, though the flashing lights continued to cast a lurid gleam in his rear view mirror.

"Uh, Sherlock?"

"Don't panic." Sherlock said, sensing John tensing beside him.


	4. Mind Games Begin

Mycroft Holmes knew how to relax. Or rather, he was an expert. He could whittle away hours and untold hours in a perfect state of utter immobility, not a single muscle taut, letting his mind flounder and flourish in the tides of his thoughts.

Now he was once again utterly relaxed, reclined in a marginally comfortable chair with wheels, hands folded calmly over his stomach; gazing, but not actually seeing the scientists and Major Barrymore nervously playing with a pack of cards they had found in a cabinet. It looked like a game that was meant to be exciting, but it was played with the mean of a funeral: hushed voices, grim faces and no triumph in victory. The only way to tell if they were transitioning from game to game would be when the red-headed scientist began to shuffle the cards.

One scientist had removed herself to sob quietly and write a farewell to her family at one corner of the lab. Mycroft's gaze flickered over to her every now and again when she caught his attention, such as when she heaved too large a sob, or began to tremble wildly.

Dr. Stapleton lounged beside him in an equally comfy chair twiddling with a strand of her hair that had come out of the tight bun she'd put it in. All of the nerves she'd been showing before, all of the raw, tender emotional struggling she'd been doing before her scientists were gone. Mycroft beamed for her inwardly, she'd shown him more craft in the hour than vigorous testing could have ever revealed.

"If we had a functional computer, someone could attempt to back hack the system: return it to our control." She said at length, having curled her hair around her finger so tightly; the stub of the visible digit was purple.

Mycroft allowed his focus to float back to reality regretfully and turned to the scientist with the sole intention of ending the conversation brutally and without mercy.

"No one in this room has the sort of skill set necessary to accomplish that goal, Doctor."

Dr. Stapleton gave him a brief, cold glance.

"I have my fingers in a lot of pies Mr. Holmes."

"So you could do it?"

"Perhaps."

"It is useless to deal in hypotheticals Mrs. Stapleton, unless it comes to fruition."

"All knowledge took its root in hypotheticals Mr. Holmes."

"Knowledge would be-"

Mycroft was silenced in an instant by the foreboding click of the speakers in the lab. The scientists dropped their hands and looked up at the ceiling silently, as though waiting for God. Anthea's phone fell to her lap. The only sound in the lab was the buzzing of the empty air.

Breathing slowed to a halt as knots of fear clutched ten throats shut, the avenging angel was about to proclaim whether life or death reined in the sterile lab, whether their breath was to be sucked out from them by fumes of chlorine or boiled in their lungs.

To Mycroft's horror and everybody else's surprise, a few chords of a guitar were strummed.

"_Hey, hey, hey, hey, ohhhh_…"

It was music. Moriarty was playing music through the speakers. Hateful music.

"_Won't you come see about me? _

_I'll be alone, dancing you know it baby_."

Mycroft ground his teeth together furiously as the scientists looked around confused and terrified. Only Major Barrymore, in his wisdom searched the lab for a long object with which he could knock out the speakers.

"_Tell me your troubles and doubts,_

_Give me everything inside and out and…"_

"I don't understand." Anthea complained, her useless phone tucked away in her pocket. "Why is he doing this? Mind games?"

She approached Mycroft, who wanted nothing more than to tune out the heinous noise and attempt to create a mind nook for him to disappear into. He sighed angrily and pointed at the speakers, gesturing to Moriarty somewhere beyond.

"Partly to play with our minds." He said as the chorus was playing, the volume was nearing deafening levels. "But also as a message to us."

"What?" Anthea cried clapping her hands over her ears.

"_Don't You Forget About Me,_

_Don't don't don't don't_

_Don't You Forget About Me"_

"He doesn't want us to relax." Mycroft shouted, just as the music shrunk to a dull roar. He quickly adjusted his volume to a reasonable level and continued.

"He doesn't want us to forget who's in charge: him. The more we panic, the better he feels." He stated calmly.

"So what do we do?" she asked him earnestly.

He responded by leaning back in his chair and propping his feet up on a nearby table.

Dr. Stapleton shrugged with the same level of nonchalance.

"It isn't all that bad if you like the music."

Major Barrymore glared at the two of them like they were two cockroaches swimming in his morning tea.

"I _don't_ like the music." He said picking up the tape he'd found in one drawer and beginning to bond two long pieces of particularly thick tubing.


	5. Armed Escort

John watched in the mirror as the driver's side door of the van was kicked open, and a short, yet sturdily built man in army fatigues with a crimson little face behind a shaggy brown beard leapt out of the vehicle, kicking up a cloud of dust around his boots.

The man marched up to their van, snorting like a buffalo, and calmly, through gritted teeth asked them what the hell they were doing and where the hell they were going.

"We're on our way to the research center." John said. "We've been hired by…"

"I'm sorry but the facility is on lockdown. No one is allowed in or out." The man growled.

"We know." John tried again. "We've been hired by…"

"Mycroft Holmes." Sherlock said lifting his brother's nicked ID for the man to analyze. "We were called in as soon as the crisis started. We're something of professionals."

The man swiped the ID from his hands and glared at it with one cocked eyebrow and a permanent scowl of disbelief.

He handed the ID back without a word and walked back to his van.

"What now?" John asked in a whisper as the two men in the van behind them conferenced excitedly.

"They can't detain us. Surely they've heard of Mycroft, and surely something has been done to ensure we can get into Baskerville in the first place, when they figure out that this whole scenario has been set out for us, they won't have a choice but to let us work."

"And if they arrest us and send us to Dartmoor prison first?"

"Then Mycroft will be waiting a very long time." Sherlock quipped urbanely.

Finally, after what seemed like an eternity of waiting nervously, both men stepped out of the black van and circled their jeep on either side, cutting off escape.

"Step out of the vehicle please." said the red-faced man, with a curled smile of barely hidden pleasure.

John opened the door, stepped out and was seized by the arms, spun around and thrown onto the scalding hood of the car.

He cried out in pain as the skin on his face seemed to burn onto the black metal and the man in fatigues clamped one ring of a handcuff around his wrist.

"John!" Sherlock leapt out of the car and was pinioned by the other man, who heaved his light frame off the ground and threw him against the back door.

"You are being detained by officers of the British government for your own protection." The red faced man said, seizing up the scruff of John's shirt in one hand and steering him by his bad shoulder with his other hand.

"No, wait! You don't understand! We're here to help!" John cried, tugging futilely against the cold metal as the man lead him to the back of their van roughly, jerking his shoulder whenever he had the chance.

"This is no place for amateurs." The man said opening the van door and kicking John in the thighs. John fell forward into the darkness, landing on his shoulder and groaning in pain. Hurriedly he tried to scurry to his feet and jump into the sunlight before the doors were closed, but the man arresting Sherlock chose that moment to shove him in on top of John.

Sherlock rolled over as the doors were shut, and they were both plunged into utter darkness.

"Well this is just great." John said leaning on his elbows and trying to negotiate his handcuffs into letting him sit upright. "What's the plan now?"

"Hang on, I'm working on it." Sherlock said, still lying stiff like a board where he had been dropped. He pulled his handcuffs apart angrily, feeling that he deserved the bite of metal against flesh.

John wriggled to the edge of the van where he was able to prop himself up right against the cold metal wall. The car rocked with the added weight of the two men stepping into the van and seconds later the engine began revving dangerously, like a growling animal.

"Sherlock…" John warned as the van began to roll.

"Thinking…" Sherlock reminded John curtly.

The van steadily built up speed until it was driving with an even breakneck swiftness that would give a professional racecar driver pause, taking John and Sherlock with it to where ever its destination would eventually be.

"Any time now."

Sherlock sat up with no visible effort, bent slightly due to the peculiar positioning of his arms.

"There's no way out."

"Great, just great." John sighed angrily. It wasn't the first time he'd been arrested (actually the fourth) but it was the first time he's been arrested with so much at stake. "How are we supposed to help your brother now?"

Sherlock stared at him, somewhat dejectedly. Being detained by the police had a way of making one feel undignified.

"Didn't you notice, we're still going in the same direction."

"So we're still headed towards Baskerville? Big Whoop, there are plenty of other roads to turn off on the way to the facility."

Sherlock rolled his eyes, a customary gesture to one of John's amateur deductions and sighed.

"There is one road that leads to the village, one that leads to the forested area, one that passes Henry Knight's house and one that goes straight to Baskerville. They have no place to drop us off that is within their jurisdiction."

"Isn't there a police station in the village?"

"Still not in their jurisdiction. They've really arrested us with no cause, so no police can really hold us. Taking us to their ultimate destination and ensuring that we are safely out of sight is the most they can accomplish."

John sighed and sat on his hands. He was tired of thinking, tired of running, and tired of deductions. He needed a vacation. A vacation that wasn't Dartmoor; it had only been a few days but he was already sick of the gloomy place with its marshes, suspicious villagers and demon hounds. The opportunity to butt heads with the greatest criminal mastermind with an unhealthy (creepy) obsession with his flat mate did nothing to combat his anathema for the gray landscape they were surely rolling past even as the van sped onward with its two prisoners.

A blade of ice slid through his ribs and chilled his heart.

"Sherlock… do these 'government' people seem a bit…odd to you?"

"How so?"

"Well… they just didn't seem to be all that concerned with any sort of protocol or anything. It just sort of seemed like they wanted…us." John's voice weakly managed to convey all the words he was thinking as he ran over the odd gestures, the unusual arrest without a word of explanation and the uncharacteristically brutal looking men in the unmarked black van.

Sherlock peered at his friend, reading his meaning and gathering his fears. He withheld the proud fact that he'd deduced that possibility as soon as John had been slammed down onto the hood of the car.

"You think they might be…" Sherlock whispered in a breathless voice, too low for the man in the front to hear. "Moriarty's?"

John nodded.

Sherlock grinned and shrugged nonchalantly. "Maybe. If it gets us to Baskerville faster, I can't complain about an escort."

John hissed "I can! My shoulder is killing me! I'm serious about this Sherlock, what if they're _his_?" John tried to conceal his flabbergasted expression, but he was unable to hide his scornful tone. How could Sherlock take being kidnapped so lightly? Or perhaps John was merely tired of it?

"Relax." Sherlock said in a perfectly calm tone designed to make John fret at a deeper, more aggravating level than he had previously been fretting. "I've never failed you yet, and I'm not about to lose at one of Moriarty's little games either; not with so much at stake."

John let Sherlock's assurance (conceit) sink in. He had a way of making everything seem like it was under control once he had a handle on it, as though he was automatically equipped with whatever the opportunity required, whenever the opportunity arose when someone needed him, always. In that way he was very much like The Doctor, except perhaps the Doctor's arch nemesis, the Master was less frightening than Moriarty had proven to be.

At the very least, he didn't seem to control every facet of the protagonist's life.


	6. Hope

"Now then," Sherlock said leaning forward with an audible click. "If you're too busy ruminating about our _temporary_ captors…" his voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper. "Who will I get to help me with our daring escape?"

He shrugged and with a swift whip his hands flashed before John's eyes and vanished behind his back again.

"You…!"

"Shhh…" Sherlock put one finger to his lips in a gesture of silence.

"Last time I let Moriarty catch me with my guard down. I thought I had him and he surprised me. This time I'm ready for anything." Sherlock hummed, braiding his fingers behind his back.

John felt a coy smile tugging at the edges of his face and he fought to keep it locked in grim disapproval. Of course Sherlock had picked the handcuffs, of course he was prepared.

"Alright, don't just sit there and brag: do me now." John whispered leaning forward and exposing his cuffed wrists.

Sherlock unfolded himself again gripping a small silver wire like a tool in one hand and twisting it with the other hand until it was a stunted number seven. He placed one hand firmly on John's shoulder and clambered silently behind him.

"Sherlock, what is that?" John asked.

"Paper clip." Sherlock answered jiggling the metal wire around the cuff lock. "I slipped them onto my sleeves before we left Baker Street."

"Glad you did. Anymore helpful junk with you?"

"I've half a protein bar in my left pocket." Sherlock offered.

"Yes please." John said sarcastically. At last the cuffs clicked open and Sherlock peeled one wrist free of its restraints. John rubbed it tenderly, cursing himself for being stupid and chafing the skin, which was pink and sore from abuse.

He sullenly handed Sherlock his other hand and let the detective tinker with that lock for a time, all the while jumping back to that small piece of his mind that had been military hard-wired to perceive danger miles before it struck.

"We're walking into a trap." John stated glumly as Sherlock removed, and pocketed his handcuffs.

"We're being _delivered_ into a trap." Sherlock corrected him, sitting back down and putting his hands behind his back again. He nodded at John to do the same, lest the quasi-kidnappers look back and find them free.

John crossed his arms behind his back. "I don't like it. He knows we're coming. Now he also knows when and how we're coming."

Sherlock stared at John for a long moment, studying, appraising and observing him. The little doctor surprised him often, and at every surprise he stood to be reevaluated.

"I know." He said quietly, carefully. "I feel… extremely foolish, indignant even, at having to go along with pre-made plans like this. Yet I can only think that once we ensure the safety of the hostages, of _Mycroft_, then our turn will begin."

Sherlock looked up suddenly, his gray eyes burning. "I dislike being compelled towards any end, John. Yet it seems in this scenario we haven't much of a choice."


	7. The Quality of Mercy

Major Barrymore wielded his newly manufactured spear awkwardly, as he clamored upon a tall stool directly beneath the speakers which still spewed the nerve-racking music.

Anthea, her hands still clamped over her ears groaned and complained: "How long is this song?"

Mycroft, who had been thinking about the small cakes served in the Diogenes on Thursdays absently, answered her, "It's less than four minutes long. It has been playing on a loop for more than twenty minutes now,"

She groaned and rested her head on the table in front of her, cursing the unnamed voice that drifted forever from the speakers and mocked their predicament.

One of the scientists had, apparently, already lost his mind. A few minutes into the song he had exclaimed "He's just playing with us! He is!" and had been repeating himself ever since; sometimes muttering, sometimes screaming it.

The remaining scientists crowded around Major Barrymore curiously as he steadied himself on his perch and prepared for the attack. Entertainment was a rare commodity in the labs.

Aiming carefully he suddenly launched a powerful stabbing attack at the circular speakers.

The music stopped blissfully for a second and a human, male voice said "Bing!" but as soon as the ringing of this voice stopped, the music continued right from where it had left off. Sighs of relief gave way to moans of frustration.

Major Barrymore lined up his motley of taped together poles for another attack when a steely voice snapped "Don't do it again!"

He turned mockingly to the challenging voice and gazed down upon the rigid features of an incensed Holmes with placid superiority.

"What? What did you say?" he asked, chest swelling with anger.

"Don't do it again." repeated Mycroft, who was suddenly very aware of the danger lingering in the room, unbeknownst to the scientists. Only Anthea realized instantly what her boss was implying and she stood to join his side in convincing Major Barrymore to drop his primitive weapon.

"Why the bloody hell not?" he asked.

"Couldn't you hear the tone? He knows what you are doing, and I doubt he approves."

"I don't care what the bloody maniac likes; I can't take on more round of this damn song!" Barrymore roared, and with one swift jab he hit the speakers again.

"Bing, bing!"

Anthea threw her hands up and tried not to show the hulking brute atop the stool how terrified she was. "Please, just hear him out!"

"I'm done listening to your pompous speeches!" Barrymore pointed the end of his long spear at Mycroft rudely and ranted: "You all heard him," he gestured absently towards the battered speakers "If it wasn't for this government stooge we wouldn't be _trapped_ here like ants under glass!"

Barrymore made to point at Mycroft again, but Anthea had an idea. She wasn't about to leave her safety in the hands of the Major, especially since they couldn't convince him to stop assaulting the speakers. When the point of the spear came towards Mycroft again she lunged for it, wrapping her hands around the smooth polycarbonate and attempting to yank apart the tape holding it together.

Major Barrymore bellowed a few hearty curses as he nearly lost both his balance on the stool and his grip on the rod, but after a moment he got his balance back, holding the weapon tighter than ever.

"Anthea, stop!" Mycroft commanded, but she could not hear him over the cheers and pleas of the divided crowd in the room.

Barrymore clutched the weapon and tried to wrench it out of her grasp, twisting it and shaking her about. Anthea shrieked with indignity as she was thrown around and nearly let go of the rod, which was beginning to fall apart with the power of their desperate fight.

The Major gripped the make-shift spear in his iron clasp and with one swift jerk he accidentally caught Anthea's ear with a staggering blow, knocking her to the floor. The rod slipped out of her hands with a squeal of flesh and plastic. With Anthea down, the inertia from his jerk continued upwards, tapping the speakers with the excess energy.

"Bing, bing, bing…_hiss…_"

Mycroft snapped his attention to the ventilation ducts and watched in horror as the steel bars rotated, exposing the blackness inside the air shaft. From the depths of that darkness a creeping mist quickly oozed out, spreading its white tendrils languidly over the wall, reaching for the beakers and tubes with fondness.

Major Barrymore had blanched and was in danger of tumbling off his stool.

"You fool!" Mycroft snapped bitterly as the other hostages began to scream and panic.

The red-headed immunologist reached out and clutched at the Major's trousers, shouting "You've killed us! He told you!"

Several people threw open drawers with a mighty bang searching desperately for gas masks of some kind that could slow the corrosive poison that would soon be twisting around their ankles, winding around their heads.

"Look!" Stapleton screeched a single blissful demand, and accompanied with her guiding finger pointing the way, salvation was revealed: The door to her office was unlocked; the panel was lit with the green light of mercy.


	8. A Hero

A scientist with freckles, who had been helping Anthea off the floor where she had been knocked by the Major's spear, dropped her and ran towards Stapleton's office. Anthea was left rubbing her own head and wondering what had happened.

Major Barrymore jumped off of his stool and wordlessly helped her to her feet. She mumbled her gratitude while Mycroft seized her arm and led her away from the billowing smoke of destruction.

Stapleton pulled the door of her lab open happily and saw that there was no gas flow from her little vent. She cheerfully ushered people inside the sanctuary. People ran in screaming.

Mycroft bustled Anthea through the door followed close at his heels by Major Barrymore.

"Izzat some kinda fog, or do I have a concussion?" Anthea asked.

"You'll be fine," Mycroft said, more to assure himself than her.

They joined the crowd of hostages bunched together at the front of the office, chattering, crying and silently rejoicing.

Major Barrymore wiped his clammy brow and turned to Stapleton who held the door. He saw the fog approaching stealthily and knew that it would break over their little refugee camp before Stapleton even knew it was close.

"Close the door!" He ordered.

Startled, Stapleton turned and looked at him in mute astonishment.

"Close the door." He repeated.

"But Major…people are still out there!"

It was true; some of the scientists had gone to yank madly on the doors which led to the lift and the hallway. One moment more would be enough for them to stagger into the safe-zone.

"I said close it! They can't make it!" he roared reaching out to grab the handle from Stapleton. Stapleton smacked his hand.

"Look at them! You can't leave them!" She pointed to the only shadowed figure staggering through the smoke, looking as though every step was going to be his last, on the verge of collapse.

"If they do make it, they'll just…Argh!" Major Barrymore saw the futility in his argument and stopped fighting.

Instead, he pulled a long handkerchief from his pocket and wrapped it around the lower half of his face mask-style, and holding his breath, much to the shock, awe and fear of his fellow hostages, he ran out into the smoke, which was only a few steps from the door.

He knew that he didn't have time to wait for the man, nor did he have time to argue that the door needed to be shut, so he took the situation into his own hands, trying not to grunt and take a breath as he hoisted the nearly unconscious man over one shoulder like a sack of potatoes and jogging back to the safe-zone.

When he had returned, he saw that he was a few seconds too late, the gas had entered the lab. Some people held their breath, while others, such as Stapleton just stared, glazed eyes ahead. He dropped his burden onto the floor and slammed the door shut with the full weight of his body, listening triumphantly for the hiss of complete air-tightness.

His burden groaned, shivered and then lay very, very still. It was as he had feared, anyone saved from prolonged exposure to the gas would just die inside the safe zone and it would be one more thing to have to deal with.

"What about… Jenna…" Stapleton slurred no doubt from breathing the gas.

"She's gone," Barrymore said firmly.


End file.
